The Baby Bargain

He loved her crazy red hair, loved the fact that, in her own way, she was a freak like him, a fish in the wrong pond. Even holding her, he felt a wave of loneliness wash over him. She was soaring away, off to somewhere she’d fit in, while he—

“You think that’s crazy?” Zoe demanded in a tiny, dubious voice.

While he—he was her friend. Here to back her up, even when she was crazy—and dyeing her fire-engine-red curls was the worst kind of crazy crime. “No…No, I don’t think so. I think you’d look wonderful with black hair,” he lied. “Or maybe…um…auburn? That might be an even better idea.” At least, less of a crime.

“Good!” she laughed delightedly. “I’m so glad you think so!” Somehow she’d slipped down to half-lie across his lap—the nylon bags were slippery. She squirmed around to rest her head across his thighs, smiling up at him. “And that brings me to one last little thing I mean to change.”

He stared down at her, helplessly, hopelessly enthralled. “W-what?”

“I thought maybe you could help me with this…” She stared up at him, smiling no longer, then reached up to finger the collar of his jacket. “You see…the problem is…I’m still a virgin.”

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN MITZY BARLOW invited him over for Saturday supper, the first week in June, Rafe Montana had gone gladly, anticipating an evening of hot, no-holds-barred sex.

Instead she’d served pot roast.

She’d served it up with such a hopeful, fluttery smile—fussing over the homey details like candles on the table, bran rolls she’d baked herself, glazed carrots just like the ones he’d enjoyed in the restaurant last week when he took her out on their first date—that Rafe realized immediately, with a sinking heart, that this wasn’t to be a simple night of fun between two healthy, sensible adults who knew precisely what they wanted.

Oh, no, this was an audition. Along with the peas, pot roast and carrots, Mitzy was dishing out all the unspoken reasons she’d make a good—no, a perfect—wife. His perfect wife.

How could a man so misread a woman’s intentions? Rafe wondered, scowling through the windshield as his headlights fled before him up the valley. He would have sworn from the way she talked last week—hell, from the way she came on to him—that they were in complete agreement. After dinner they’d danced, and you couldn’t have wedged an ace of hearts between them, the way she’d melted into his arms. And later, when he’d walked her to her door, Mitzy had made it crystal clear what she wanted. While he kissed her good-night, she’d drawn the hand he’d placed lightly on her shoulder down to her breast—then held it there while she moaned and squirmed against him. He’d felt plain apologetic, when he came up for air, explaining that he couldn’t stay. That since he hadn’t presumed to make arrangements for someone to sleep over with his daughter out at Suntop Ranch, he had to go home to Zoe.

Mitzy had caught him off guard on their first date. But this Saturday, when she’d insisted in a husky voice that it was her turn to entertain him, he’d come prepared. At his pointed suggestion, Zoe was sleeping over in Trueheart tonight with her best friend, Lisa Harding. And yesterday he’d stopped by the barber’s for a trim, a week before his usual cut. Plus he’d shaved for the second time today, just before setting out. And along with a thirty-dollar bottle of French wine, he’d brought a wallet full of condoms.

But then Mitzy served pot roast—her great-grandmother Barlow’s recipe. Rafe had sat there at the table with his expectant grin fading on his face, wondering if he should tell her how he felt before the meal. Or after.

Like all men, he was a coward when it came to hurting a woman, so he’d opted for after, praying with each bite of overdone beef that he was wrong. That Mitzy just liked to cook. Or that maybe she was building up his strength for the evening’s entertainment.

No such luck. Along with the strawberry shortcake, their limping conversation had taken a turn for the worse. Mitzy had started quizzing him on Zoe. How had he ever managed, raising a small daughter alone out on a ranch miles from anywhere, without even a neighbor’s wife to give him advice?

She’d shaken her head and smiled knowingly when he’d insisted they’d managed just fine. Seeing that smirk, he’d felt his temper rise. No one had better hint to him that he hadn’t done his best for Zoe. He’d shaped his whole life around her from the very start.

And he hadn’t been fool enough to try to raise her alone, though he owed Mitzy no explanation and so had given none. He’d recruited Mrs. Higgins to be their live-in housekeeper after Pilar’s death, and that arrangement had worked out fine.

At least it had up until last year, when Mrs. Higgins had fallen head over heels for the new county agent and, after thirty years a widow, remarried. Since then, she could only come three days a week to cook and clean, but neither Zoe nor he would have dreamed of trying to replace her. After all these years, she was family. Besides, by this time Zoe hardly needed constant supervision.

“But if it wasn’t so bad before,” insisted Mitzy, “what about now, now that she’s…um…a young lady?” Didn’t Rafe find himself at a loss dealing with sex and the other issues a young woman faced?

“When it comes to the birds and the bees, ranch kids learn most of the answers before town kids think up the questions,” Rafe had observed dryly. As to other issues—things a teenage daughter wouldn’t care to discuss with her own father—she could take those to Mrs. Higgins.

Besides, though this was nothing he’d share with Mitzy, Zoe was maturing late. That date earlier this spring, for the St. Patrick’s Day dance, had been her first real night out. And apparently nothing had come of it. The kid—what had his name been—Bobbie?—must not have measured up. Which hardly surprised Zoe’s father. She had been chosen valedictorian of her class this spring, just as he’d predicted. He’d been so puffed up with pride, watching her give the graduation address last week, he’d thought he might burst. But where was a girl like that going to find someone to match her in a small town like Trueheart? It was one more reason he’d pushed her to apply to Harvard.

“But now that she’s interested in boys, don’t you think she needs advice on how to dress, how to behave…how to flirt?” Mitzy demanded.

“She’s not interested. Not yet,” he said to close off this line of inquisition. He felt his teeth come together with a click when Mitzy burst out laughing.

“At sixteen? Of course she is, Rafe! And if you think she isn’t, that just shows how out of touch you really are.”

He kept the edge out of his voice with an effort. “She’s been pushing herself hard in school these past four years, Mitzy. Really hard. She has won national awards four years running in the science fairs. And then with her extracurricular work—the yearbook and choir. And volunteering down at the hospital in Durango—”

“But I suppose Zoe knows you’d disapprove of her choice,” Mitzy mused, ignoring him entirely. “I imagine any young man who dared to date your daughter would have to pass a pretty fierce inspection at the door.”

She had that double-damn right, at least. But that was beside the point. As yet, there were no randy young studs sniffing after Zoe for him to check out. Zoe was too busy being a tomboy and a scholar. “That doesn’t leave much time for boys,” he finished, and smacked down his coffee cup. End of subject.

“Oh, there’s always time for boys,” Mitzy purred, rising from the table. She came up behind him, and, resting one hand possessively on his shoulder, reached around him for the dessert he’d barely touched. Her forearm drew across his chest, and her breast brushed the back of his arm.

Rafe felt himself stiffen all over. He went too long between women. Managing a spread the size of Suntop Ranch, he had little time or energy left to go courting in town, where the available women were. And bringing a lover back to the ranch, with his daughter living there, had never been an acceptable solution. At least that would be changing soon, when Zoe went off to college.

“Let’s have our brandy in front of the fire, shall we?” Mitzy said from the counter, lifting two balloon glasses.

Rafe sighed and followed her to her big couch in the living room, which he’d noted with approval only an hour ago when he first arrived. One reason he went a long time between lovers was that he refused to play the games that some men played. He couldn’t stomach stringing a woman along, pretending to agree with her dreams when he was after something else entirely.

Still, though he believed in straight talk, he hesitated. Telling another person that you knew what she wanted, before she’d declared herself, felt downright rude. On the other hand, maybe these tippy-toe hints were as close to a declaration as Mitzy could come.

She handed him his brandy, then clinked her glass against his. “To us,” she said softly, and held his gaze over the rim as she drank. She licked her upper lip, then smiled a slow invitation.

But Rafe was stuck back on “us.” There was no “us” yet, as far as he was concerned. “Us” sounded like a matched pair in harness trotting down the long, long road together. No, thanks, Mitzy. She was moving way too fast. “To good times,” he said firmly.

“What about you?” Mitzy murmured, snuggling back into the hollow of his shoulder. “With your chick leaving the nest in September, won’t you be terribly…lonely?”

“No.” He finished half his glass in a gulp, and straightened the arm she was leaning against along the top of the sofa, making himself into a hard, unbending corner. “I won’t be.” At least, he thought not. “You’ve got to understand, Mitzy. I’ve been sitting on that…nest for almost seventeen years.” Hatching his one fabulous, freckled egg for the past ten years all by himself, except for Mrs. Higgins. “I was nineteen when Zoe was born.”

“That must have been so hard,” she said softly. “But I suppose the good side of it is, now you’re still a young man. Why, you even have time to start a second family, if you feel like it.”

“What I feel like, after all this time of being a responsible, hard-working daddy, is taking a break,” he said bluntly. “Being footloose and fancy free. Free to come and go as I choose, when I choose.” To chase one woman or twenty, or none at all.

She was right; he was still a young man. But he’d missed most of the good times that a young man enjoyed. Those wild and crazy times that made the best memories, that a man could look back on with rueful pleasure when he reached his settle-down years. So far, Rafe had had to live his life backward, and though he didn’t regret it—look what he had to show for his hard work—still…If this wasn’t his time now, when would it ever be?

“Oh,” Mitzy said in a small voice.

Good, she was getting his message.

“Do you mean to…travel much?” She tipped her head to gaze up at him.

“Some,” he allowed cautiously. As manager and part owner of one of the region’s largest ranches, he’d never be able to travel far or long. But he’d finally found himself a good foreman, and he paid the man well enough to keep him. Anse could take up the slack if Rafe wanted a week or two away in the off-seasons.

Though it wasn’t as if Rafe had any particular plans. He wasn’t one of those middle-aged idiots desperately trying to recapture the lost years and live them now. At thirty-five, he was too old, too stiff, to hit the rodeo trail, although that had been his intention before he and Pilar had made a baby.

And he was too wise to chase the girls he’d missed out on seventeen years ago—the pretty rodeo queens, the spunky barrel racers, the sassy waitresses. Somewhere along the line his tastes had changed. To him, those girls all looked like slightly older sisters of Zoe, staying up way past their curfews. No, nowadays when he wanted company, he wanted a warm and knowing woman in his bed, not some giggling child.

The warm woman leaning against him stirred. “I’ve always wanted to travel, too. I’ve been thinking about flying down to Cancún, sometime this month. Laze around the beach, drink too many margaritas, take a lo-o-ong siesta every afternoon.” She arched her back and smiled up at him then, and hooking an arm around his neck, leaned backward. “Want to come with me?”

If there hadn’t been so many strings attached…Rafe had shaken his head regretfully, resisting the urge of both gravity and nature to follow her down on the cushions. “June is branding month, moving the cows up from the home pastures…” And he was a full-time father for one last summer, before he could cut loose.

She pouted prettily. “What if I waited till July?”

“I don’t think you should wait for me,” he’d said in all truth. Any woman who dreamed of starting a second family with him would have a long, long wait, indeed.